It has grown to be like a madness. Since the first time he had her in his arms, every time he has held her it has increased, grown headier, fuller, sweeter and still more desperate. He has never known anything to be like this, he has never felt like this before. He has read psychoanalysis of infatuation, and there is something missing, something that the textbooks don't cover, when he thinks of what he feels for Isobel, when he thinks of how he feels when he is with her. Love is almost too fickle a word. He loves her like a madness.
He is usually such a temperate man. Something in her makes him fierce. He would kill for her, and he would die for her in a moment. He wonders if she knows this, if she could ever guess at it.
He can stand there and watch her, just watch her. He cannot do anything else, he is drawn in, watching her movements.
She catches his eye before she knows it, and a smile slips onto her face.
They could have been anywhere. It happens that they are at the Abbey. Dinner has been eaten, and he is effectively waiting for the time when he can go. He will leave before her, no one knows, only they know. Sometimes he finds it incredible: how can everyone not know? Isn't his love for her written all over his face, isn't it burning up his body? Surely this thing is too powerful to only exist between the two of them.
She is still smiling at him, and he smiles back. His heart is hammering. She is coming towards him.
"They want me to stay here for the night," she tells him quietly, glancing behind her, checking that no one can see the way she leans in towards his ear with her lips.
He can feel her breath on his neck.
"I said no, of course."
He lets out a quiet, contented sigh.
"Thank you," he tells her sincerely, in a low voice.
She is standing very close to him, their noses are almost touching.
"I want to get out of here," she tells him in barely more than a whisper, "I want to be with you."
"Pretend you're sick," he tells her, half pleading, "Say you need to be taken home."
He thinks his face might be flushed with the wine and with the want. He doesn't care, and nor does she. Her eyes glimmer a little as she looks at him.
"So you can examine me?" she suggests quietly, cocking her head a little to the side.
"Please, Isobel," he murmurs quietly, "Not here. I can't stand it."
Briefly, quickly, her gloved hand slips into his and squeezes it tightly. Suddenly, all pretence and all mirth is gone from her face and she looks completely serious.
"I'll tell Cora I'm not feeling well," she told him, "I imagine she'll send you to check on me before ten minutes is up. It'll be perfect," there was a pause, their eyes did not part, "I'm so in love with you, Richard."
He thought he was going to break; for sure he was going to break, he was going to lean in and kiss her and everything would be known. He felt himself leaning forwards.
She moved just in time. She gave him a wary look.
"Later, Richard. Not much later," she whispered.
And then she was gone, across the room, heading for Lady Grantham.
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